All the mornings. Give me all the mornings! The ones when there’s a raspy, “Good morning, Lieutenant” when Steve rolls to his side and snuggles close to Cath, his hand sliding up and down her thigh, gripping gently at her knee. The sleepy smile she gives him and a cute yawn that muffles the “Good morning, Commander”.
But also the mornings when Steve’s alarm clock is annoying and he gets up to go for a swim, dodging the pillow that is being thrown at him, because “Asshole, lemme sleep”. And Steve smirking down at Cath, so adorably pouty, disheveled, pulling up all the covers and burying herself underneath.
Mornings when Steve wakes up, because someone is stubbornly poking him. He barely opens his eyes, when she tells him she’s hungry and wants waffles, and fruits too, and maybe he could make cranberry lemonade. There’s a softer poke, barely felt, and he recognizes it as the tiny kick where her pregnant belly is pressed to his side.
Give me early mornings, when one of them is sick and the other awakens by pure worry and need to take care of the other. Warm hand touching the forehead, checking for fever, then adjusting the covers. The dreadful hour before dawn, when they get up to give meds to the half-conscious one and then they stay looking at his/her face, until they fall back to sleep.
I want the lazy mornings, when they both hope to sleep in a little bit longer, but there’s a presence by their bed, looking with big blue eyes and clutching the stuffed sharky. And then it climbs on the bed and wiggles between them, smacking Steve’s face with the stuffed toy, tiny fingers tangling in Catherine’s hair, tugging not so gently. Small feet kicking until Steve pulls the toddler close, so it rests snuggled between the two of them.
